


Throwdown

by colonel_bastard



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Boners, Fluff, M/M, Roughhousing, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/pseuds/colonel_bastard
Summary: Rick smirks.  “Betcha can’t pin me in under a minute.”
Stan takes one look at Rick Sanchez, Human Stringbean, and snorts with laughter.  “Now there’s a stupid bet.” 
Unfazed, Rick grins at him, crocodile-wide, all teeth.  “Prove it.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> for [spinetrick](http://spinetrick.tumblr.com/), who wanted "stanchez fluff — making stupid bets"
> 
> directly inspired by [this brilliant piece of spinetrick art](http://spinetrick.tumblr.com/post/150474857855/some-uh-innocent-roughhousing-nothing-to-see)

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Stan is three beers deep and two episodes into the new BBC miniseries version of _The Duchess Approves_ when he hears a familiar voice in the living room doorway.

“He-e-e-ey.”

Stan doesn’t take his eyes off the TV. In his peripheral vision he can see Rick leaning with his shoulder propped against the door frame, his hands jammed in the pockets of his lab coat. 

“Hey. Hey, Stan.” 

Gaze fixed on the screen, Stan huffs, “What.”

“I, uh, I got a question for ya.”

“Better be a hell of a question.” Stan gestures at the television with his half-empty beer can. “I’m kinda in the middle of something, here.”

“W-wanna make a bet?”

Funny how Rick always seems to know exactly how to get his attention. Stan picks up the newfangled remote and pauses the TV — Dipper would be so proud of him for remembering how — then turns to raise an eyebrow at Rick, his interest undeniably piqued. 

“What’d ya have in mind?”

Rick smirks. “Betcha can’t pin me in under a minute.”

Stan takes one look at Rick Sanchez, Human Stringbean, and snorts with laughter. “Now _there’s_ a stupid bet.” 

Unfazed, Rick grins at him, crocodile-wide, all teeth. “Prove it.”

Okay, here’s the thing: it’s obvious that Rick wants to get pinned. What is _not_ obvious is how this is gonna go down. On the one hand, there’s a pretty good chance that this is all just a pretense to get Stan to put his hands on him— that he’ll collapse like a souffle the second Stan touches him, dragging Stan down into a tangled heap, _whoops, oh no, I-I-I guess you’re on top of me now, how did that happen, huh?_ On the other hand, there’s an equally good chance that he actually intends to fight like hell.

Say what you will about Rick — he’s selfish, he’s reckless, he’s unstable — but at least he’s never boring. 

Stan finishes his beer and makes a show of crushing the can in his fist. 

“Okay, wise guy,” he says. “And if you win?”

Rick’s still got that crocodile grin. “Th-then I get to pick the next bet.”

“And if I win?”

Rick gives an idle shrug. “Uh, I dunno, bragging rights?” 

Stan narrows his eyes. “Nice try.”

“Fi-i-ine,” Rick holds up his hands in mock-surrender, like this wasn’t the plan all along. “Then you get to pick the next bet.” 

“All right,” Stan says. “You’re on.” 

Still seated, he plants one slippered foot against the edge of the coffee table and shoves it away from him, turning it perpendicular to the couch in order to clear more space on the living room carpet. Then he hauls himself up to his feet and rolls his broad shoulders. 

“Gonna take you down, old man,” he warns, cracking his knuckles. “Hope you’re ready.”

Rick pulls one hand out of his pocket to flicker his fingers in a beckoning gesture. “Bri-eugh-ing it on, old man.” 

Stan makes a one-fingered gesture of his own, then glances at his watch to mark the position of the second hand. If they’re gonna do this, they’re gonna do it right— and sixty seconds is more than enough time to get this skinny son of a bitch down to the floor. 

“On my mark,” Stan says, eyes on the second hand. “In three… two… one.” 

Rick is still leaning against the door frame like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He doesn’t make a move until Stan makes his. Then, when Stan charges forward to grab him, Rick drops into a crouch and sweeps out his leg, catching Stan right in the ankles. 

_Oh,_ Stan thinks as he pitches sideways. _So he’s gonna make me work for it._

But Stan’s not about to go down empty-handed. As Rick tries to spring back up to his feet, Stan manages to catch him by the shoulders, dragging him along until they both lose their balance and tumble to the carpet. From there it’s a mad scramble, Stan racing to get up so he can throw his weight down against Rick, Rick rolling and skittering to get himself out of range before that can happen. When he thinks he’s managed to get enough distance, Rick lurches up to his knees and tries to make a break for it— but now Stan’s up on his knees, too, and he throws his arms around Rick from behind, crushing him to his chest in a bear hug. 

“Augh!” Rick squawks, flailing around in Stan’s grip, kicking his legs to keep himself upright and unpinned. “Motherffffff—!”

“Ohhhh, I gotcha now,” Stan grunts, pulling Rick backwards, trying to wrangle him down. 

But goddamn, this is more difficult than trying to hold onto Waddles after Mabel decided to host a spontaneous game of Catch the Greased-Up Pig. Rick bucks and twists and wriggles and Stan just keeps blindly trying to hold onto him, his hands scrabbling for purchase. All at once his arms go slack. Somehow in the confusion he ended up with both hands clenched in the material of Rick’s lab coat— and said lab coat is now suddenly unoccupied. Rick, down to his sky-blue sweater, is slithering away across the carpet. 

“Not so fast, punk!”

Stan tosses the coat aside and lunges for its owner. At the same instant Rick darts sideways, banking left and pivoting in an attempt to tackle Stan as he passes. It’s a valiant effort, but as far as Rick’s scrawny level of force is concerned, Stan is an immoveable object— especially when he’s close to the ground like this, his powerful arms braced against the floor. Rick just ends up plastered to the side of him like a bug on a windshield. 

“Shit,” he laughs. “Shit, shit—”

He tries to clamber onto Stan’s back instead, arms and legs wrapped around him, trying to keep himself out of Stan’s reach. Stan just sits back on his heels so he can hook an arm around one of those long legs and pull, yanking Rick into rotation like he’s a globe on an axis. They end up chest to chest, Rick with his legs still wrapped around Stan’s waist, Stan holding them both upright. 

“Uhhhhhh…” Rick grins sheepishly. “Hey.” 

Stan winks at him. “Hey yourself.” 

Then he grabs Rick by the hips and shoves him all the way over until his back hits the floor. Rick gives a loud, theatrical “ _huuuaaaghh_ ” at the impact, feigning momentary incapacitation before promptly planting his feet and trying to scoot backwards for an escape. Stan won’t let him get away that easily. Using his grip on Rick’s waist, he just hauls him all the way back again, Rick’s sweater riding up as it drags across the carpet, his legs spread wide to accommodate Stan in the space between them. 

Rick isn’t trying to get away anymore. This time when he plants his feet, it’s so he can arch his back and lift his ass off the floor, pressing his groin up against Stan as Stan leans down over him, breathing hard. Stan can feel Rick’s hard-on digging into his belly, just like Rick can feel Stan’s answer digging into the seat of his pants. Stan’s hand moves from Rick’s hip to his exposed stomach, his fingers following the sweat-damp curve of his ribcage.

“Okay,” Rick wheezes, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. “You win.” 

Stan shakes his head. “Not yet.”

And he leans the rest of the way forward, bracing his right hand on the floor over Rick’s shoulder and planting his left forearm squarely across the span of Rick’s thin chest, pinning him fair and square. They’re face to face again, Rick on his back and Stan above him. Close enough for a kiss— but Stan turns his head and checks his watch instead. 

“Forty-one seconds,” he says, flushed with pride. “Piece of cake.” 

Rick squirms underneath him, warm and tantalizing. “So-o-o… what’s next?”

Stan smirks. “Betcha can’t get me off with only one hand.”

Rick leers knowingly at the double entendre. “Heh. Now _there’s_ a stupid bet.”

And Stan braces both hands on the floor so he can bow his head and kiss him, sloppy and sweaty and still out of breath. He can feel Rick’s hands moving into the space between them, those long, clever fingers curling around the waistband of Stan’s boxers. 

“What’s it gonna be, tough guy?” Rick wonders, snapping the elastic against Stan’s hip. “Right hand or left?”

Stan is well-aware of his dexterity with both, so he just says, “Surprise me.”

“And, uh,” Rick arches up against Stan’s belly. “What happens when I win?”

“I dunno,” Stan rocks his weight back down against him and grins. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

 

 

 

_______end.


End file.
